


Impressions

by StrayPaper



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Control Ending, F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 19:11:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13441404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrayPaper/pseuds/StrayPaper
Summary: A krogan walks into an art exhibit.This strangely persistent idea led to the birth of this weird little fic.Set in the future, post-control ending.





	Impressions

There were things, Lyssus supposed, that would have been more surprising than finding an ancient krogan irritably waiting at the entrance to the T’Soni Foundation Museum of Fine Arts when she first opened the marble door. 

Lyssus was absolutely certain there were things that should have been more surprising. But standing at the promontory of the exhibit she had made her life’s work, she wasn’t actually able to think of any, yet. Not while she watched the bulky old krogan decked out in brilliant gold battle armor, pacing foot to foot at the head of the line like a child who had just been denied candy. A child who was entirely too accustomed to getting his own way.

The krogan was drawing the attention of everyone around him. Most of them, like Lyssus, were unused to the sight of a krogan in the flesh. The race had all but disappeared once they’d launched their massive colonization effort beyond the Veil. These days, krogan most often appeared as the stars of bedtime horror stories that less enlightened matrons used to scare young asari into shape. Not standing at the grand opening of an art exhibit. And Lyssus had certainly never seen one this old. Or this large. Or this scarred. Jagged lines cut deep swaths across the leathery plane of his face, grinding chunks out of muscle and bone. His lips were a seam that would never quite meet.

If she were honest with herself, the attendance itself was surprising. Several hundred beings of all species stood in lines she had painstakingly demarcated the night before. She allowed herself a small moment of pride. In her heart of hearts, her deepest fear was that no one would be interested in this particular exhibit at all. 

Fascination with the Reaper War had steadily waned in the past three hundred years. The art of the era had fallen out of vogue. This, this was purely her passion project. Centuries spent combing old archives and attics and vaults. Begging, bribing, and occasionally, shamefully, using the political power of her family name to assemble the most complete collection of The Great Councilor’s art in existence. 

“Well,” the krogan shouted up the steps, “You gonna keep us waiting out here all day or what?” The crowd behind him gave him a wide berth, and Lyssus waved everyone inside. 

“If you’ll step this way,” she said, carefully adopting her best, most professional voice. This was the part that had terrified her most. She was terrible at public speaking. Painfully awkward in social settings. She preferred the company of old paintings and sculptures. But for this, she had practiced. For this, she would persevere. There was no one alive who knew more about The Great Councilor’s work than she did. It was her duty to preserve it. More than that, to share it. 

“As you can see in your brochure, guided tours in groups of twenty will depart every hour, on the hour,” she announced, clearing her throat over the nerves that threatened to choke her. 

“I want to go through it myself,” the krogan demanded. “Where’s the V.I. interface?”

“All T’Soni Foundation endeavors abide strictly by the Rannoch Accords of 2875. No sentient or virtually sentient technology is employed by this facility.” 

He huffed a loud, foul breath at her. 

“I assure you,” Lyssus found the nerve to insist, “We strive to provide the highest quality of insight and historical perspective for every exhibit at this location.”

“Don’t give a salarian’s testicle about your historical perspective,” he muttered. But, mercifully, he followed.

Lyssus brought the group to the first wall of paintings. “As some of you may know, The Great Councilor began his first paintings toward the end of the Reaper War.” She raised a delicate hand to the wall. “He taught himself, privately. His endeavors were never sold or displayed in his lifetime. Some were given as gifts. We have diligently recovered the paintings in this exhibit from private collections across the galaxy.”

Lyssus sought to control her shaking fingers as she watched the krogan push his way forward to get a closer look. What could he possibly be doing here? What if he tried to break something? Caused a scene? They hadn’t needed full security at this location in decades. What could she even do to stop him?

“This wall displays his earliest pieces," she persevered. "The Councilor began with water colors, exploring the medium by painting members of each of the major races. The common consensus is that each of these portraits represented someone the Councilor knew personally, although many of their names have been lost to time.”

The other patrons crowded forward, activating eye-cams and murmuring demurely to themselves. The krogan let out a loud, unimpressed whuff of air, but said nothing. 

“You’ll notice the subtlety with which he uses greens and blues for the drell,” she continued. “The Councilor’s eye for color really was exceptional.”

Despite her initial distraction, Lyssus began to find her footing, gaining confidence with each new question from the crowd. 

Yes, that is a quarian. Yes, back then every quarian had to have a suit. No, not all geth were friendly. Yes, this one was. No, no one knows why The Great Councilor chose to paint a piece of red armor on it. 

Slowly, the krogan moved closer to a portrait of a lone salarian. For a breathless second, she expected him to reach out and touch it. She vividly imagined the security barrier shocking him back, a rage-filled howl. Imagined the entire grand opening ruined by the chaos of one rampaging interloper. 

But. He held still. Thoughtful. The look on his face was respectful. Almost—gentle. If a face as ragged as his could ever be described as such. And Lyssus forced herself to re-examine her fears. Under her self-imposed scrutiny, she didn’t particularly like what she saw. It smacked of old-fashioned racism. Pure and simple. And hadn’t one of the most memorable achievements of The Great Councilor’s work been his dedication to members of all races?

Lyssus breathed deep, then made herself relax for the first time since she’d opened the door. So far, the krogan had largely behaved just as any other patron. She resolved to treat him as such. She resumed her commentary with stilled nerves, painting by painting, until she led the group to the largest room of the exhibit.

“And here, we have what I expect many of you came to see. The Shepard room.”

She gestured broadly at the lavish oil paintings gracing the large walls while the crowd behind her made various noises of excitement, awe. 

“Shepard, Savior of the Citadel, Hero of the Reaper War. By far the Councilor’s favorite subject. Certainly, millions of works of art have been dedicated to Shepard through the centuries. But these paintings have the rare distinction of being created while she actually lived among us, by one who knew her best.”

Here, the krogan wandered slowly, tread reverently, as he carefully examined each portrait. He stopped at one, and his face lit up with a smile bright enough to out-strip his armor. 

“You have good taste,” Lyssus told him as she came to stand beside him. “Most critics agree this portrait was his best work. The last pure picture of Shepard. Before the descent,” she added softly.

“Descent,” he grunted warily.

“Yes.” She turned to address the crowd. “As we move into the final hallway, you’ll observe that the tone of the paintings changes. We refer to this last stage of The Councilor’s work as ‘the descent.’ You’ll note that each of these paintings bears Shepard’s face in some respect, but as we travel further down the hall, further through time, her features fade, while the Reaper’s image becomes more pronounced. Together, the works depict Shepard being subsumed by the endless brutality of war.” 

Lyssus pointed to the final painting, a black and blue Reaper against an empty sky. “In this, what we believe to be his final masterpiece, Shepard’s face is no longer visible at all. The controlled Reaper looms large, devouring the frame. Many theorize this final excision of Shepard’s presence symbolized the completion of The Great Councilor’s tumble into madness and depression before he vanished forever from public life.” 

“Is it really true he was turian?” a tiny asari with red markings pushed to the front to ask. “Everybody knows turians can’t paint.”

The mother gasped, grabbed her daughter by the shoulder and pulled the child back, making an embarrassed face as she looked around the diverse crowd. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know where she gets these things. We don’t teach her that at home.”

“No,” Lyssus said, smiling. “It’s quite alright.” She knelt down in front of the little girl. “Do you know what else people call The Great Councilor?”

“The greatest turian painter,” she dutifully recited, pulling up the brochure in an omni-feed.

“Very good. The greatest turian painter of his time.” She raised up and addressed the crowd. “Some may try to belittle this achievement, joking that he was the only turian painter of his time. But to those of us who have studied the history of turian art, his uncommonness only makes his achievement grander. Deeper. He began painting during the worst hardship that the galaxy had faced in fifty thousand years. He was born to a race with little painted art to speak of, and little inclination to foster it.” Lyssus knew she was getting carried away. Her mother had always chided her for being a hopeless romantic. But, in this, she couldn’t stop herself. 

“That a turian in that great darkness could learn to paint light, hope, and love so vividly that it would be remembered for centuries—it only makes his talent more impressive. Not less,” she beamed at the audience. “Don’t you all agree?”

A smattering of polite applause broke out. One by one, the crowd began to disperse, but the krogan stayed, wide feet firmly planted in front of the final painting, a disgusted grimace spreading across his face.

“Sir, I’m sorry. I’ll need to clear the area soon, so I can start the next tour.”

“How much?”

“I’m sorry?”

“How much money to stay as long as I want?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.” 

“It cost me a hundred fifty lannix to book one tour. You’re running, what? Eight tours a day? Here.” He tapped a command into the omni-feed in his broad palm. “That’s two grand. And I stay as long as I want.”

An art-loving krogan. A momentous day, indeed. “That’s far more than—”

“I stay as long as I want,” he repeated. 

“Of course, sir,” she demurred.

“And none of that ‘sir’ stuff here today. It’s just Grunt.”

“Grunt,” she answered. Suddenly, the face clicked home. A face she had seen hundreds of times. Maybe thousands. A face currently hanging from one of the museum walls. Younger. Lighter. Unscarred. Gray face plates still numerous, then, not yet hardened by age into the single broad shell of solid bone she was staring at now.

“Urdnot Grunt,” she said again, feeling light on her feet.

“Nobody uses clan names anymore. Not since the Krogan Unification War.” 

“A war you won,” she said, needlessly. Breathlessly. “You succeeded Urdnot Wrex as emperor to the entire krogan people. The Great Councilor himself painted your likeness.”

“You get this way around Liara too? I bet she hates it.”

“Matriarch T’Soni is a firm and fair employer.”

“Wouldn’t happen to be related to her, would you?”

She felt his weighty gaze, and the smirk at the sides of it, and drew herself up to her full height. “I haven’t spoken to Matriarch T’Soni in over two hundred years. I would prefer to stand on my own achievements. Thank you.”

“Heh. Heh. You’re one of hers alright.” 

She bristled. “I hardly see how that’s any of your business.”

“Way I see it, you’ve made all of us your business.” He waved a meaty hand around the room.

“So, it’s true, then.” Her delicate pride broke under the force of her curiosity. “You really knew The Great Councilor.”

“Sure, I knew him. Not by that name though. He wasn’t any fancy councilor back then. Just Garrus. Garrus Vakarian.”

“I have so many questions.”

“Not sure I have many answers. Reaper War was a long, long time ago. Just came by to pay my respects.”

“But, you must tell me. Please.” In a moment of pique, she forgot herself, reached out a hand and rested it on his armor-plated arm. “What do you think of it? The exhibit. How did we do?” She couldn’t hide the apprehension. To have the chance to hear from someone who actually lived it. Someone who knew them all.

He turned his broad head to take in the hallway. Considered. Sniffed. “Missed some stuff. Like Mordin Solus. Cured the damn genophage. We still sing songs about him. And here he doesn’t even get his name on a plaque. Can’t believe your mother let you get away with that.”

“She—she doesn’t like to talk about those days. She's evasive. Always telling me that digging up the past breeds more disappointment than peace. That we’re safe now, protected because of Shepard’s sacrifice, and to let that be enough. I finally told her that I was going to present this exhibit, with or without her help.” She jutted out her jaw. “That was the last time we spoke.”

He watched her through slitted eyes, seemed to take her measure slowly, before prodding. “And you kept going.”

“Shepard risked everything to save the galaxy. All of you did. A sacrifice like that, it deserves to be remembered. It’s our duty to get it right,” she pronounced.

When he finally spoke, his voice rolled like foreign thunder. “Fine. I guess I can help. A little.” He walked back to the first room with Lyssus trailing eagerly behind. “Might screw up your schedule though,” he called over his shoulder.

“The tours can wait. I may never get another opportunity like this again. We used what remained of Flotilla, Hierarchy, and Alliance military records, but there’s still so much we don’t know. Please.”

He pointed at a row of portraits in the Normandy room, calling out absent names as he went. “Dr. Mordin Solus. Thane Krios. Kelly Chambers. Jacob Taylor.” He looked thoughtfully at the quarian. “And you should change this one to ‘vas Normandy.’ Think she’d like that better.”

“And this one?” Lyssus pointed at the bald, marked female that had been the subject of over a century of academic debates.

“It’s right.”

“Just—Jack?”

“Just Jack. Heh.”

“We’ll make the changes immediately.”

“If you’re gonna start changing things, you should start with the pictures first. And take out all that stuff about Vakarian going crazy.”

“What?” She took a breath and a step back.

“Take out all that stuff. I mean, he was crazy, alright. Heh. We all were to follow her. But not like that. And you’ve got your pictures all out of order.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

The krogan stalked back into the largest room. He pointed a firm finger at the portrait of Shepard he’d been admiring earlier. “Here. This one. This one goes last.”

“Were you with him when he painted it?”

“No. I'd been scouting the Veil for years by then.”

Lyssus pondered him. “Then, how could you know?” She put up a hand before he could speak. “I mean no disrespect. I know you knew the crew. But, I can assure you, art historians have studied the Councilor for centuries. These paintings were ordered based on periods in his artistic and emotional development. The Normandy Period. The Shepard Period. The Descent. If you know anything about art—”

“I know Shepard’s eyes were green.”

Lyssus looked from the picture to the krogan and back again. “Yes?”

“Her eyes in this picture are blue,” he proclaimed, clearly expecting her to immediately take his meaning.

“Well, of course,” she agreed. “Many experts agree that the changing color of her eyes in this picture is symbolic of his hope that—”

“Vakarian’s paintings are symbolic as varren shit.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Look,” he said, huffing an exasperated breath. “Vakarian wasn’t crazy. The controlled Reaper. The one at the end. You should put it at the beginning of your 'Descent' hallway instead. Reverse the order of the rest of them.” He stabbed a finger at the blue-eyed Shepard again. “And then you put this one last.”

“But, that wouldn’t make any sense at all.”

“Sure, it does. Vakarian. Was. Turian.” His eyes bore down on her, long and slow, as if she were a particularly dimwitted child. 

He went on. “Vakarian wasn’t drawing Shepard into the Reaper. He was drawing her out of it.” Plainly. Simply.

As if it weren’t the most amazing thing she’d ever heard. “That—that’s not possible. He went mad. He disappeared.”

“Hell. I don’t know where he went. Had my own problems back then. But I know turians. And I knew Vakarian. And for all your fancy art talk, he didn’t see the world the way he wanted it to be. He saw it the way it was. Then, he painted what he saw.”

“And?” she felt herself ask. But she knew. Her life’s work. She’d been a fool. Desperately trying to complete a puzzle while blindly overlooking the obvious final piece.

He stared at the painting again, then looked back to her, grinning with his full measure of teeth.

“And in this one, Shepard’s alive. She’s smiling. And her eyes are blue.”


End file.
